Premonition
by concordia-cum-sinistro
Summary: "Over me broods a disky spirit, premonition of impending doom embracing me inexorably like a closing umbrella" (JM Barrie, 1905 draft of Hook's soliloquy) - Shortly after the loss of his hand, an introspective Capt. Hook ventures out of his cabin, hoping for some sense of peace and order. "Ah, envy not Hook." [Characters belong to JM Barrie]


**Premonition** (2017)

[Angst, Tragedy - tw: vomiting]

* * *

For the first time since the Incident, the Solitary ventured out of his cabin.

Hook had waited until night—his arm still in a sling, his wrist still in a bandage; both throbbing with each beat of his heart—to catch the fresh, cool air. Through the numb pain and melancholy he was glad he'd waited for the night breeze; it played refreshingly through his hair and over his face, which, just two days ago, had been burning with fever.

The stateroom behind him was in shambles; a mirror to his overwrought mind. As he clicked the door closed behind him, he felt a tiny brush of shame for the disarray he'd created in his cabin…but it was gone in an instant. There was too much, _far_ too much, for him to feel right now to be concerned about his living quarters. What he wanted—no, _needed_, desperately—was a distraction in the fresh air. Something to disrupt the dark, crushing thoughts; something to pull him from the black place that had been growing within him since he'd lost his hand. He wanted structure. He wanted order.

Mindful of his injured arm, Hook pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket, opened it, and squinted at its face. It was 1:30. _Structure_. _Order. _His breathing slowed. Over the lapping waves below he could just hear its tiny tick, the springs and gears inside like the fluttering heart of a little bird. As he moved to lift it to his ear, he saw, flashing in the moonlight, the Latin inscription etched in the case lid: _Tempus edax rerum_.  
He'd forgotten about the inscription. Was it by Ovid? Sophocles? His head still hazy from his ether-soaked recovery, he struggled to find the place in his mind where he housed Latin quotes and authors. He read it again. It was Ovid, he was sure now. Stumbling around his mental library he sought the meaning of the phrase, and felt a coldness crawl up his spine.

_ Do you really want to know?  
Yes  
Really?  
__** Yes**__, damn you!_

He knew he'd held the quote close to his heart for years. And reading it now, as he stood in the spot he'd lost his hand and watched as the Boy threw it overboard to…

_ a Shadow in the water…_

His eyelid twitched.  
…reading it _now— _

_ Meaning clicked into place.  
Tempus edax rerum_.  
_** Time devours all. **_

—Hook felt like he was falling, just like his severed hand had, into a hideous, suffocating black. He leaned heavily against the bulwark with a gasp, watch squeezed tight in his remaining hand. _Structure! Order_! His mind spun around and around as he fought with the rising tide of anxiety, fought against the connections being made in this Hell_._

_ time devours all oh God__I kept the watch in my left waistcoat pocket.  
I've kept it _**_on _**_me near me _**_with_**_ me a constant companion held –  
__** contained**__ – __  
just below, right up against my (_**_don't think about that!_**_) stomach…  
A pocketwatch for James  
A clock for the Crocodile  
Match.  
Match. _

He felt like screaming. He felt like tearing at his skin with his nails. He felt like there was no air. He felt like—  
_... his right hand itched._  
He looked down at the muslin-wrapped arm in its sling, at the arm that ended abruptly at the wrist. His right hand was burning. Tingling. _Stinging_. It was burning, wherever it… _(this is impossible!)_… was—

_ Tempus edax rerum, Iacobus_,  
the slowly _**dissolving**_ hand whispered to him.  
_Sum quod eris_

James thought he'd vomited all that he possibly could over the last three days, but as he painfully heaved mucus and bile overboard, he realized that he'd been grossly mistaken. Stifling a single cry, he clenched his jaw and rested his head on the cool gunwale.  
_Time devours all, James. As I am, you will be.  
_He let his mind drag him down, crush the air from his lungs. He let it run through every possible horror it could show him. He let it dissolve him.

Finally, finally delicate sounds drifted to his ears and awareness: watch ticking like a heart. Wind and waves. Breathing ragged, but steady.  
As his hand stopped itching and burning, Hook's thoughts circled back into their ordered lines, like so many birds descending into a tree for the evening. He was finally able to breathe again and considered the watch still in his hand. He rose to his master height, shivered, and turned away, returning the watch to its resting place in his waistcoat pocket.

_ Resting Place._

Hook pressed the thought down, far down, into himself and opened the door to the dark chaos of his cabin. As the latch clicked behind him, a lurking, monstrous shadow grabbed the thought and consumed it whole.

* * *

Author's notes

\- I referenced a line from Michael Davies' sonnet "Throned on a cliff" (1920) in the above writing: "Man rose to his master height, shivered, and turned away; but the mists were 'round him." Davies was one of J.M. Barrie's godsons.

\- Writing was influenced by the following pieces:  
Ralph Vaughn Williams' _Fantasia on a Theme of Thomas Tallis  
_Johannes Brahms' _Piano Quintet in F minor_, Op. 34, Mvt. IV_  
_César Franck's _Piano Quintet in F minor _


End file.
